His Final Wishes
by bonnefoys
Summary: After several years of suffering from illness, Francis decides he no longer wants to go to the doctor for treatment. His family isn't too keen on his decision and do their best to convince him to change his mind. Throughout their days, they remember when things changed their family forever and accept Francis' decision. FACE family and FrUK. I do not own any of the characters.
1. Decisions and Heartbreak

**Author's Note: Finally, I'm writing a fan fiction for my OTP! Though, it's a bit depressing. But hopefully, it will be decent! Comments and critiques are welcomed and very much appreciated! **

* * *

He needed him. He didn't care if it was a matter of life or death, he needed him. Arthur had been alone for the majority of his life, he'd be damned if he had to be alone again.

It started with one of his kidneys. The doctor called them late at night, begging and pleading for them to come in the office the next morning. And they had done just that. Arthur remembered it clearly; the worry in the doctor's soft voice, the colour being drained from his lover's face, the emotional knife that had been stabbed in the pit of his stomach.

"It's cancer." The doctor said, as if it were nothing. From that day on, those words stuck in Arthur's mind; echoing and taunting him every waking moment. Simply, they gave Francis the treatment he needed; they removed the infected kidney and all was well again. Arthur believed that they could continue to live their lives happily without a worry of that bloody cancer coming back. But he had been wrong; boy, had he been wrong.

After the kidneys, it had somehow moved to the lymph nodes, which meant that next he had leukemia. Francis struggled day after day with chemo, growing weaker and weaker as the years progressed. Arthur continually reassured him that one day he'd be healthy again and all would be well. They had believed it, or, it was more of that they repeated it over and over again in order to believe it. The treatment continued on and off for several years until one day, after being told that he needed to receive chemo again, Francis said:

"I'm done."

Arthur gave him a glare, scowling at him. "What do you mean, 'you're done'? Done with what?" he asked.

"Done with treatment," Francis clarified. "I don't want to go through with it anymore," Arthur's jaw dropped as he glanced at the doctor's worried stricken face. "I think I've gone through enough pain in my life, I'd like to not have to worry anymore."

"Don't you know what will happen if you stop receiving treatment?!" Arthur asked. He felt a rock forming in his throat, stuck in there and if he were to speak again, tears would spill out.

"I'd get to keep my hair for more than a month?" Francis joked. He laughed, sincerely, but frowned when he noticed that Arthur wasn't having any of it. "I'm at peace with what will happen." Arthur bit his lip, trying not to cry.

"Well, I'm not. I want you to go through the treatment again. It'll work this time!" he cried, blinking back his tears. Francis looked at the doctor, who refrained from saying a word.

"Arthur," the Frenchman said, gently. "You and I both know that's not true."

"But it is!" Arthur shouted. "Come on, please! I can't…" He paused, looking away. "I can't lose you." Francis stood up from the chair and headed for the door. "Can we talk about this at home, sir?" Arthur asked. "W-we don't have to make a rash decision right now, do we?"

"Not at all," the doctor replied. "Take your time; you two may discuss the matter of things in the privacy of your own home. We, however, hope that you make the choice that is best for Francis." Arthur nodded, following his partner out of the office. Francis had already gotten a decent start out of the building and stood by their car. The two climbed into the car, Arthur in the driver's seat, and began on their way back to their flat.

"Why don't you want to go through the treatment anymore?" the Englishman snapped.

"You know why, Arthur," Francis murmured. "You just won't accept it."

"You're damn right I won't accept it! I'm not letting some stupid cancer take away the love of my life!" he cried. "Francis, I'm begging you! Please, go through the treatment again. It'll work this time"!

"Don't you want to be happy again, Arthur?" Francis asked, gazing out the window. "Think about it, without the treatment, we won't have to worry about getting me to the hospital every day. I can keep my hair, I'll get my strength back. I'll be me again," He turned and gave Arthur a smile. "Wouldn't that be wonderful, _mon amour_?" Arthur gripped the steering wheel with frustration, his knuckles turning white.

"It would be nice…"

"Don't you care about what I think?" Francis asked. "You haven't been the one who's been through the treatment over the years, have you? It's been me! I'd say it's more painful than the cancer itself!"

"I won't lose you!" Arthur yelled, smacking his palm against the wheel. "I can't and I won't!"

"You're not going to lose me, Arthur," Francis reached over and held Arthur's hand. "I'm right here."

"Dammit frog, you know what I mean!" he sniffed. "Maybe not right now, maybe not in a few weeks, but eventually you're going to…" His voice trailed off. No, he couldn't say it. "I can't bear to think about being alone again." Silence fell over the car, Francis fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

"Arthur, you'll never be alone. You know that." Francis mumbled.

"If you're…you're…gone, who's going to be at my side at night? Who's going to make sure I don't burn the kitchen down when I'm trying to cook? Who's going to love me when I absolutely hate myself?" Arthur muttered. "I can't be alone again…I just can't." They had pulled up into the parking lot for their apartment complex, and sat in silence for several minutes. Francis leaned over and kissed Arthur's cheek.

"You don't have to be, _mon amour_," he whispered. "You never will be."

* * *

Arthur woke up to the smell of something sweet baking in the kitchen. He rolled over to see that Francis had already woken up and had gone to the kitchen to cook the two of them breakfast. A small smile tugged at his lips as he slowly climbed out of bed. He shuffled out of the room and into the small dining area in their flat, finding a cup of tea already waiting for him. The Brit sat down in his usual chair and took a sip of his tea as a plate with muffins was placed before him. "Good morning, love," he said, yawning. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than ever." Francis answered, taking the seat next to his husband. "And you."

"Alright, I suppose." He glanced over at his lover before taking a bite from his piping hot blueberry muffin. Silence settled in as they ate, Arthur felt unsure as to how to bring the topic up. He didn't want to be fighting this early in the morning. "Is there anything you'd like to do today?"

"We could go for a walk in the park," Francis answered, cheerfully. He wiped the crumbs off of his pants and flashed a smile. "I heard the weather is supposed to be nice today. And the leaves are changing colours."

"You don't want to go to the doctor's office, then?" Arthur asked. He flinched, realising that his thoughts had slipped out through his tongue and he prepared himself for any words that might be shot back at him. There was an irritated sigh from Francis as he pushed his plate away.

"I've already made my decision, Arthur." he replied. Arthur nodded, slowly.

"I suppose we can think about it some more." he added.

"No!" Francis shouted. "There's no more 'thinking about it'! I can't go through with it anymore!" He snatched the empty plates off of the small, dainty table and hurried to the kitchen. "I don't think you understand how tired I am of it all!" Francis continued, pouring himself more hot water.

"Don't you think I'm tired of it all too?" the Englishman asked. "Of _course _I want you to be healthy again, of _course _I hate seeing you in pain. Don't think I'm being selfish because I'm not! I want you to be better and happy! That's why…" Francis chuckled, leaning his lean body against the counter.

"But Arthur, I _am _happy," he said. "I'm happy each and every day I get to wake up by your side. When I get the chance to spend the whole day with you. I'm happy," Arthur pursed his lips, looking at the newspaper that was lying next to him and flipped over a page. "But I can't be happy if you're not happy for me."

"I don't understand how you can be happy when you're dying." Arthur mumbled.

"I'm not dying, love. I'm not," Francis urged. "I'm living. For the first time in my life, I'm living. Can't you see that?" Arthur shook his head, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Please, smile for me and let this go. We can go on all of those trips we had planned before. Won't that be wonderful?" Arthur remained silent, standing up and walking out to the balcony. Francis followed him, wrapping his arms around his worried husband. "Arthur, talk to me." he pleaded.

"How can I talk to you when you're not listening to me?" Arthur snapped. Francis stepped back, giving him some space as Arthur quickly spun around. "You're dying unless you go back and get the treatment you deserve to keep on living." Francis sighed, planting a sweet kiss against Arthur's forehead.

"Oh, Arthur," he whispered. "I don't know how to make this anymore clear for you."

"For me? Francis, I don't know how to get it through that thick head of yours that you need the treatment and therapy." Arthur yelled. Francis put a hand over Arthur's mouth, gently calming him down.

"Have you ever gone through with it?" he asked.

"What?"

"Have you ever sat through hours and hours, sitting in the most uncomfortable chair possibly in existence with radiation pulsing through your body, your blood? Have you ever felt that awful burning feeling? Have you felt like it was actually slowly killing you while you sat there, instead of saving you? Have you felt what I've felt?" Arthur's lips quivered.

"No, of course not…" the Brit began.

"I have, and it's not pleasant." Francis continued. "I know that the pain you feel is a different kind of pain, but you need to know that what I think must come first over everything else. I know you're concerned, but that is so far off from now, Arthur."

"We don't know that for sure! The cancer came back and we don't know how long until…" Francis shook his head, turning away.

"It is nothing. Think of it as something else, like a cold or the flu or…"

"This is much more serious, Francis! Much more serious!" Arthur shouted. "This is cancer! And I won't let it take you away from me! I won't allow it!"

"Arthur…"

"Please, can't you think about it? Once more? For my sake!" Arthur begged. Francis sighed and leaned against the door frame. He shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at his partner. "Francis, please. I'm begging you. Think about it one more time."

"I don't think I can. I've already made my choice. I want to live again." The Frenchman muttered.

"But you're—"

"Enough," Francis hissed. "I've had enough of this. I've made my choice, Arthur," He gave him a soft, but sad smile. "I'm done."


	2. Poetry and Family

He couldn't think straight for the rest of the day. Arthur sat at his desk in the spare room that he used for his office and attempted writing anything that came to mind. The journal company had been on his arse for a new short story for the last few weeks. "Even some poetry would be nice." His editor had told him. Arthur tried and tried to write a plot line for a story, tried to create new characters but all he could think about was Francis. The Brit's husband was in the other room, watching some old movie, resting. Arthur picked up the sheet of paper with smeared ink and tossed it over his shoulder.

"That's the tenth paper you've thrown away, Arthur." Francis called. "What's the matter? You usually work well under pressure."

"Yeah, well I've got a sick husband who doesn't seem to care to worry about." Arthur muttered under his breath.

"I didn't hear you!" Francis shouted.

"Nothing, love." he called back, running a hand through his messy hair. Dramatic music echoed through the flat from the movie, making Arthur frustrated. He threw another sheet of paper away, this time throwing it across the office, shouting nonsense.

"That's eleven now." Francis added. The rickety floor boards rattled as Arthur heard footsteps come into his room.

"You know how much I hate it when you're in my workspace." Arthur mumbled. "You distract me."

"Well, perhaps I could inspire you in your distraction." The Frenchman whispered in his ear. He draped his lanky arms around Arthur, planting a kiss on his cheek. "_Mon amour_."

"Get out." Arthur sighed, shrugging Francis off. "I need to work." Francis chuckled and leaned against the wall in front of the desk, striking a pose.

"Does this inspire you?"

"I'm a writer, Francis, not a painter."

"No, but really, look! I used to be quite the looker with longer hair. Ever _you _said so." Francis said. Arthur glanced up at his beloved husband, seeing Francis' ridiculous posture and smirked. The Frenchman was right; he was quite charming, even if his hair wasn't as long as it used to be.

"How long is your hair now? A bit longer than mine, yes?" Arthur commented, scribbling on a blank sheet of paper.

"I'd say it's about the same length." Francis replied, relaxing from his pose. He glanced at Arthur's hair, chuckling to himself. "Maybe a bit longer. And it's less messy, too."

"Hurry up and grow your hair back." Arthur added, smiling. Francis laughed and walked around the desk, wrapping his arms around the Brit. He leaned over and nuzzled his face against Arthur's neck, nipping his skin a bit. "Distractions."

"There's nothing wrong with distractions from time to time." Francis muttered into Arthur's shirt collar. "I like distractions. _Oui_, distractions are good."

"I really need to get _something _in for my editor. Please, Francis, leave me be." Arthur grumbled, trying to pull away.

"Just a few minutes. A _short _distraction. Not as good but, it's still a nice distraction." Francis pleaded.

"Maybe you could distract me by boiling some water and making me some tea." Arthur mumbled. Francis stepped away from him, sticking out his bottom lip, pouting. "A nice cuppa is a nice distraction."

"You tease! You always do this!" the Frenchman cried, distraught. Arthur chuckled to himself, amused. Francis often made it too easy to tease him like this, and Arthur took advantage of each chance he got to do so.

"For good reason." he said. He waved his arms at Francis, following him to the doorway. "Now go, I'm starting to feel inspired! I need some Earl Grey!"

"I hate you." Francis grumbled on his way out of the room, closing the door behind him angrily.

"I love you too." Arthur hollered, smirking. He sat back down in front of his desk, tapping his pen against his teeth, thinking hard. After a few seconds, he let out a sigh and let his pen glide against the page.

_His Final Wish _

Arthur bit his bottom lip, mustering up the inner strength to keep writing. This would hurt, for sure; but somewhere deep down, he felt the need to write this. He heard the tea kettle screeching in the other room and the clatter from Francis searching for clean cups.

_My love told me _

_that one day we'd depart. We laid in bed, holding _

_each other in the cold. _

_I could feel his warm, _

_beating heart next to mine. I told him that day _

_would never come, _

"So you're writing a poem after all," Francis commented, slowly walking in the room. He gently placed the over filled tea cup next to Arthur's hand and smiled. "What's it about?"

"Spoilers." Arthur snapped, folding the paper in half and hiding in the drawer. Francis groaned.

"Don't tell me you're quoting that damn doctor show again," he whined. "You know I can't stand it when you do that."

"I want to keep it a secret."

"You _always _let me read your pieces!"

"Not this time. I want it to be a surprise." Arthur explained, taking a sip of his tea. Francis smiled sweetly and sat on the arm of Arthur's chair. He rested his head on his lover's, stroking his hair a bit.

"I inspired you," he sang. "Is it about my good looks? My flawless hair? My caring, loving personality?"

"It's about your obnoxious laugh." Arthur replied, placing his pen back in the pencil holder. Francis frowned.

"I thought you liked my laugh." he argued.

"Only when I'm drunk," Arthur rested his elbows on his desk, letting the warmth from the cup heat up his stone cold hands. "It is about you, though." Francis sighed, moving away.

"Of all the things you could write about, you had to write about _that_." he mumbled.

"Our wedding." Arthur corrected.

"Don't lie," Francis snapped. "You keep acting as if I'm already dead. When my time does come, it'll be too late for you to be happy." Not wanting to argue, Arthur had to think of something quick to distract Francis from the dark topic.

"Let's go to Greece." Arthur cheered, standing up.

"_Quoi?!"_

"You've always wanted to go there. Let's go to Greece!" Francis narrowed his eyes and tilted his head a bit. Arthur raced around his desk and tapped Francis' shoulder. "Or Italy? Or Spain? Wherever you want to go, love!"

"I want to see Mathieu and Alfred." Francis answered. Arthur froze. Anywhere but _there_.

"Of all the places in the world, you pick North America?" the Brit complained. "Let's go somewhere exotic!"

"I _said_, I want to visit our adopted sons. They live in a small apartment after all and it's been _years _since we've seen them." Francis repeated. "They're our sons, Arthur. Are you still holding a grudge against them?" Arthur sighed, turning away. "That was so long ago! Mathieu and Alfred are both in their twenties, young men in fact, and deserve to be on their own, after all."

"Alfred is an irresponsible _boy _and _Matthew _is socially awkward. The boy will let anyone push him around!" Arthur grumbled. "They had no right to just buy plane tickets and run off to a different continent without informing us.

"They're attending universities, furthering their education! You should be proud!" Francis said.

"Of course you have no problem with it," Arthur continued. "You probably helped them pay for it all in the end!"

"We were young and wild once, Arthur. Remember? And we adopted those two when we were in our twenties…"

"Thirties!" Arthur shouted. "Why don't we just go to Greece!?"

"_Non_." Francis replied, sternly. "I miss our boys and wish to see them." The Frenchman turned to the doorway. "We can plan our personal trip at a later date."

* * *

"So you want to come and visit?" Mathieu said, cheerfully. The quality of the camera on the Skype call was a bit fuzzy, and both Arthur and Francis would've preferred to use a phone to contact the boys. But Mathieu had insisted the "Skype is really cool!". "That's wonderful! Al, did you hear that? Papa and dad are coming to see us!" Alfred walked behind Mathieu in the background, giving thumbs up.

"Awesome!" he exclaimed. "I was starting to miss the old fogies." Arthur grimaced and glanced at Francis with a stern glare.

"It was your dear old papa's idea." he mumbled. "Isn't he so sweet?" Francis teasingly pushed Arthur, laughing.

"We miss you two so much!" Francis said. "I couldn't go another week without seeing you two, my baby boys!" Arthur winced at his partner's last comment, knowing there could possibly be some truth in that statement alone. "Besides, your birthdays are coming up." Mathieu laughed and scratched the back of his neck.

"I bet you wouldn't guess that Al still complains that I'm older," he said. "Even though we're only a few minutes apart…"

"Few minutes means everything, dude!" Alfred whined, his voice echoing. "It's not fair!"

"I see nothing has changed after all…" Arthur muttered.

"Al's at the top of his engineering class, by the way." Mathieu added, ignoring Alfred's complaints in the background.

"Yeah! I'm gonna build a plane! A turbo jet!" Alfred cheered. "I can show you my blueprints when you come over!" Francis laughed, shaking his head.

"I'm so proud of you two." he said, attempted to push his short hair behind his ear. "Aren't you as well, Arthur?"

"Yes, yes," he replied. "We should be flying into New York around five p.m.. What's the address to your flat?"

"Oh, we could probably pick you up at JFK," Mathieu suggested. "Al earned enough money on his internship last summer to but a cheap Ford Explorer. There's plenty of room for the four of us, plus luggage."

"We don't want to trouble you guys too much." Arthur answered.

"I don't mind!" Alfred hollered. "I recently fixed the engine and the transmission on that thing; I'd love to try it out on long trips. And Matt can drive through Brooklyn too!" Mathieu laughed nervously, shaking his head.

"I don't know about that," he muttered. "Brooklyn drivers are scary."

"Nah, bro, you can totally do it."

"No I can't!"

"Yes he can."

"Okay, _fine_."

"Alfred, don't push your brother around!" Arthur scolded. "Well, it's getting late here in London. Papa and I should get some rest." Mathieu gave a reassuring smile as he nodded.

"Okay. Sleep well!" he said. "We'll see you in a few days! Al, say goodbye!"

"Bye!"

With that, the Skype call ended with Francis and Arthur waving at the computer screen. "Well, I'm rather excited, aren't you?" Francis asked. "They seem to be doing well. Alfred's getting ready to go off in the engineering world."

"While Matthew continues to be pushed around." Arthur added, standing up from his chair.

"Some people are late bloomers. Socially, I mean," The Frenchman muttered. "And since when was Alfred the 'good' kid?" Arthur sighed.

"Never said he was. I'm just saying Matthew could use a little ambition, is all." he added.

"He's still deciding what he wants to do with his life and that's okay. Let the boy be," Arthur walked into their bedroom and began changing into his pajamas. "I'm still proud of the both of them, nonetheless," Francis continued. "And you should be too."

"I am proud," Arthur replied. "Just differently, that's all."

"Differently? How so? All because of what happened a few years ago?" Francis asked. Arthur didn't reply, only pulling his shirt over his head. "Well, I'm excited to see them," he added, sighing. "It'll be a good trip, for the both of us." They crawled into bed, curing up next to each other and turned off the lights. Francis was the first to fall asleep, as usual, and Arthur closed his eyes, doing his best to count sheep.

But sleep hadn't been a regular occurrence in years, had it?

* * *

**Author's note: So, to answer any questions about Alfred and Matthew, here they are. They'll be in the story from now on. Sorry for any confusion because they weren't in the first chapter. This story started out as just a FrUK story but then I added Alfred and Matthew so yeah. Also, sorry the story sucks so much I don't even know why I'm posting it. I'm not really expecting many people to read this anyway. Maybe the story will get interesting later on. Reviews and critiques are welcomed and very much appreciated. **


	3. The Twins

**Author's Note: I meant to post this chapter sooner, but procrastination kind of took over. I think this chapter is a bit longer than the previous two; it kind of explains what happened in the past I suppose. There might be a few moments of OOC, and I apologise for that. I hope you will enjoy it, nonetheless! Reviews and critiques are welcomed and very much appreciated! **

* * *

The twins were different from the very beginning, swaddled in their blue blankets; it was evident the first day they had been brought home.

Alfred, the youngest by a mere three minutes, was the one whose eyes were often filled with wonder. Once he was old enough to crawl and roll around on his own, there was no stopping Alfred from keeping him away from places where he didn't belong. As he grew older, Alfred would break toys (typically Mathieu's toys) to see what was inside and _attempt _to put them back together. He loved to eat sugary goods; a day never went by without Alfred sitting in timeout for trying to steal cookies from the cookie jar. There was nothing that could kill his curiosity.

Mathieu, on the other hand, was perfectly content with just sleeping in his parents' arms when he was first brought home. He was the quiet baby between the two, and never broke a smile. He often sat and watched Alfred play with the toys instead of playing with them himself; he preferred to hear his daddy tell him stories all throughout the day and somehow, picked up speaking French. Mathieu didn't mind that Alfred was rambunctious and a trouble maker, nor did his parents mind for that matter. In fact, Arthur and Francis forgot about Mathieu because he was simply much better-behaved than his younger twin.

The twins were much work from the day they were brought home, but Arthur and Francis loved them nonetheless.

* * *

The twins coped with emotions differently and individually. Mathieu was much more down to earth than Alfred, even though he had the tendency to be a wallflower. Alfred was reckless with his emotions and had a tendency to either act immediately if something set him off of be completely hindered. But in the spite of things, no matter how bad things were in their lives, there was an unwritten bond that kept Alfred and Mathieu together.

When the two overheard their father on the phone with the doctor and the sobs from their Papa from the bedroom on that terrible night, it was Mathieu who comforted Alfred. The two were told to go to bed earlier than usual that night by Arthur, who was just as emotional as his husband at that time. Mathieu lied awake for several hours, listening to the sobs and gasps from his brother on the top bunk. "Mattie," Alfred whispered, his nose stuffed from crying. "Can I sleep next you tonight? I can't sleep." Now, at this time, the twins were thirteen and Alfred had whined and complained for months about getting bunk beds so he'd no longer have to share a bed with his brother. He claimed that they were too old to be sharing a bed, and that bunk beds were 'totally cool'.

"Sure, Al." Mathieu replied, scooting over to make room for his brother. The top bed creaked as Alfred climbed down the ladder and curled up next to his brother. Mathieu knew Alfred was trying his best not to cry, but in a matter of minutes, Al's side of the pillow was completely soaked with tears and snot.

"Do you think Papa will die?" Alfred asked, hiding his face in the blankets. Mathieu couldn't answer, how could he? He simply didn't know the answer; he was only thirteen years old after all, and just as scared as his brother. But, he knew that between the two of them, someone had to be strong and comfort the other.

"Papa's strong, Al," Mathieu answered. "And so are we."

"You're lying," Alfred blubbered. "Papa's sick, and there's nothing we can do to help him."

"We can by staying strong. It'll be what Papa wants." he continued.

"How are you not crying?" Alfred questioned. Mathieu took a deep breath. Why wasn't he crying? Was it because he was shocked of it all? Stunned that he had seen his Papa seem so small, so weak? Alfred was certainly doing enough crying for the both of them, so did Mathieu feel as if he didn't have to?

"I have to be here for you, Al. If I was crying, the two of us would be crawling into Dad's and Papa's room right now." Mathieu finally answered, pulling some of the blankets back that his brother had stolen. The twins stayed curled up next to each other, Alfred shaking as he muffled his cries and wails in the pillow. Eventually, Alfred cried himself to sleep, his tears drying and staining his face. Mathieu stayed awake for a little longer, thinking of possible future situations, and fighting his own tears.

* * *

Their lives had changed that night; the lives of the Bonnefoy-Kirkland household were shattered from that point on. Most weekends were spent at the hospital for Francis' doctor meetings, treatment appointments or surgeries. Every now and then, for about a few months, they could live as if there were a normal family again; hoping and praying that Francis' battle with cancer had been won. But that never seemed to be the case when the phone would ring at an ungodly hour in the middle of the night.

Arthur tried to stay calm about it all; he wanted to be the strong father figure in the boys' lives, even though at night he would break down and isolate himself in his office. Francis managed to remain positive throughout it all; there was never a moment when a smile wasn't on his face when he was around Mathieu and Alfred. The two men wanted to keep their family happy, even though things had already been broken.

The twins, on the other hand, were growing up individually. Mathieu became more quiet as the years went on, keeping his thoughts and feelings inward. He did well in school, though, and was involved in extracurricular activities that took place after school. Alfred, however, looked for distractions elsewhere. Most of his 'distractions' were girlfriends that would last two days or one nightstands as he and his brother grew older in high school. Francis and Arthur often asked Mathieu where his brother was when he would walk into the door, thinking that he still had some connection with his younger twin.

"I don't know what's gotten into him," Arthur grumbled one night at dinner. "This is the _last _thing this family needs."

"He might be at a study session." Mathieu suggested, keeping his head low.

"The three of us know he's out shagging some girl." Arthur snapped. "He's going to end up getting some girl pregnant, and we most _certainly _don't need a baby in this house." Each night, Mathieu would wake up to the sound of Arthur screaming at the top of his lungs when Alfred arrived home with lipstick smeared all over his face or the smell of whisky on his breath. "Why can't you just be obedient like your brother?! Matthew _never _gets in trouble nor causes it! Why won't you listen to me?!"

"Because you can't tell me what to do anymore!" Alfred shouted back. "It's my _fucking _life! I can do whatever the _fuck_ I want to!" He stormed off, kicking the slightly ajar door open and slammed it behind him. Mathieu closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep as Alfred opened his laptop and typed vigorously on his keyboard. "Matt, wake up."

"I'm already awake," Mathieu sighed, sitting up. "It's hard to sleep with you and Dad screaming at each other."

"Do you have a favourite place?" Alfred asked. "Like, if you could move somewhere else, where would you go?" Mathieu rubbed his head and yawned.

"I dunno; the highlands are pretty nice I guess." he answered.

"No, somewhere away from _here_." Alfred pulled up a Google page, searching for universities that were abroad. "How about New York? Good ol' NYC." Mathieu climbed out of his bed and looked over his brother's shoulder. "I heard that New York's the best place for a better future."

"Al," Mathieu murmured. "You're not thinking of running away?"

"Damn right," he replied. "I need to start my own life, Matt."

"I don't think that's it, Al."

"You'll come with me, right?" Alfred begged. "Promise me, Mattie. I need you by my side."

"_Papa_ needs _us _by _his _side," Mathieu said, sternly. "Do you want to upset him and Dad?"

"Papa might as well be dead." Alfred mumbled. In that moment, Mathieu didn't know what came over him. He had never been violent in his life, so why had he reacted in such a manner then?

It was only a smack; a smack so harsh that it left Alfred's cheek burning red. Alfred stared back at his brother in shock, dumbfounded that his brother had actually _hit _him. "Don't you ever say that, Alfred!" Mathieu yelled. "Don't ever say that!" Alfred blinked in shock as Mathieu crawled back into his bed. "This conversation's over."

* * *

"Matt," Alfred called, racing into their bedroom on a Saturday in April. He slammed the door shut with a kick and jumped onto Mathieu's bottom bunk. "We got accepted! The both of us!" Mathieu blinked in shock, staring at the two huge envelopes in Alfred's hands.

"We got accepted to NYU?" he asked, stunned. Alfred nodded, his smile bright as ever. "That's great, Al, but Dad and Papa—"

"You'll come with me, won't you?" Alfred pleaded.

"We need money," Mathieu replied. "And what about our passports?"

"They're fine, I checked. Besides, it was only a few months ago when we went to France. Out passports should be good to go." he answered. "We both earned full scholarships, so money isn't an issue."

"We still need plane tickets! Do you plan swimming across the Atlantic?!"

"Plane tickets?"

The two brothers turned their heads quickly to see their bald-headed Papa standing in the doorway. "You two are going somewhere special?" Francis asked, stepping inside the room. He quietly closed the door behind him, smiling. "Full scholarships, eh? Where's the lucky university?" Alfred and Mathieu exchanged glances with each other, worried. Francis raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Somewhere far away? It wouldn't happen to be New York, would it?" he chuckled. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Because Dad would rip us to shreds," Alfred answered. "That's why."

"Arthur doesn't need to know about this, per se," Francis said. "You only need plane tickets, yes? Everything else paid for?"

"Well, we'd need to buy textbooks and supplies," Mathieu murmured. "I wasn't quite sure if I was going; I got accepted to several universities here in London and—"

"It's good to live abroad!" Francis cheered. "If I hadn't gotten the scholarship to move to London, I would've never met your Father," He grinned, patting both of their heads. "I'll pay for anything you boys need. And I'll personally drive you two to the airport."

"Really?!" Alfred asked, his eyes wide with excitement.

"Of course!" Francis said, nodding.

"But Papa!" Mathieu cried.

"But nothing," Francis placed his hands on Mathieu's shoulders, smiling at him. "You know that I'll do anything to keep you boys happy," he continued. "And if this will make you both happy, then off on that plane you two shall go."


	4. Welcome to New York!

**Author's Note: Hello! Apologies for the late update; school has been HECTIC for me the past few weeks and probably will continue to be crazy until spring break. I'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter so far, and I hope you don't lose interest in the middle of it. Reviews and critiques are welcome and very much appreciated! **

* * *

The flight had been horrendous for Francis. He had flown on planes before, but they had only been for a few hours, if that. This flight, however, made his stomach twist and churn in all sorts. Francis tried watching movies on the tiny little screen attached to the seat in front of him, but found himself constantly standing up and clumsily walking to the disgusting bathrooms. Arthur, on the other hand, slept peacefully on the flight as his movie went on. His head often rested on Francis' shoulder, which put a smile on the Frenchman's face when the stomach pains weren't as bad. But when the plane was back on firm ground, it made Francis even happier.

Once they were through the agonizing queues through customs and waiting for their luggage, Francis and Arthur joined the heavy crowd, looking for their sons. "Papa! Dad!" Francis overheard behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Mathieu and Alfred waving their arms about. "Papa! Over here!"

"Mathieu!Alfred! _Bonjour!_" Francis exclaimed, opening his arms wide as he rushed over to them. He dropped his luggage at their feet and pulled the two close, kissing their cheeks. "Oh, it's so good to see you! I've missed you too so much!"

"We missed you too, Papa," Mathieu replied, laughing lightly. "But, you look pretty tired."

"Yeah, you look kinda crappy," Alfred agreed, patting his Papa's back. "We better get you and Dad to the hotel, pronto." Francis chuckled, waving his hand in the air.

"Oh, it's nothing. Just some jet lag, is all," he said. He turned to Mathieu and ruffled his hair, pulling him in for a hug. "Mathieu! You've kept your hair just the way I like it!" Mathieu smiled and nodded.

"I tried a few different styles when Al and I arrived here. But this one was the only one that looked decent compared to the others." he said. Arthur stopped beside Francis, dropping his baggage by his feet and sighed.

"Thanks for disappearing on me Francis. I was a bit worried that you'd run off." The Brit grumbled.

"Dad!" Mathieu cheered, pulling Arthur close. "Welcome to New York!"

"The best city ever!" Alfred added. "Speaking of which, we better get going. Rush hour is a bitch to deal with."

"Language, Alfred." Arthur corrected.

"All I said was bitch! It's a female dog!" Alfred defended.

"Not in that context!" Arthur shook his head. "Right, we should leave then. Where do we need to go?"

"In the parking garage, _duh_," Alfred replied, pushing past his parents. "I'll lead the way."

"Arthur," Francis murmured, pulling his husband back. "Promise me you'll tone down the arguing with Alfred while we're here. I want this to be peaceful and memorable. Bickering has no place here."

"Yes, of course," Arthur replied. "Anything for you." He picked up his luggage and hurried along behind the two eager boys, glancing over his shoulder occasionally. When they stepped outside, France and Arthur grimaced.

"Is it usually this hot?" Francis complained. "_Mon Dieu_!" Alfred laughed loudly, walking backwards as he began crossing the street.

"It's nice weather, dude!" he answered. "Great swimming weather! Wait 'til you see our swimming pool in our complex. Boy, it's great!" They walked through the parking garage, eventually finding Alfred's old, beaten up car. "Sorry that it looks a bit shitty—"

"Language!"

"…But at least it has air conditioning!"

"Sometimes." Mathieu mumbled, quietly. The two boys carried the bulky luggage into the back of the SUV as Francis and Arthur opened the back passenger doors. Alfred raced around to the driver's side, almost tripping over himself as he did so. The car inside was a complete mess; there were candy wrappers everywhere, broken CDs, even crumpled up McDonald's bags underneath the front seats. There was a subtle, musty smell inside that made Francis' nose curl up.

"Do you smell that?" he asked, keeping his voice low so only Arthur could hear.

"Unfortunately." Arthur replied, clearing his throat.

"Sorry it's so messy," Alfred announced. He twisted around in his seat as he quickly and smoothly backed out of the parking space. "It'll be clean by tomorrow morning when we go to breakfast."

"No it won't be," Mathieu added. "How was the flight by the way? Eight hours is pretty harsh." Francis nodded in agreement as he held onto the handle on the door as the car swerved into traffic. "When Al and I flew over here, we were pretty beat when we moved onto campus. We were exhausted, actua—" With a flick of a switch, Alfred turned on the radio at full volume, singing along immediately with the latest hit. Mathieu sighed, reaching over to turn down the dial slightly. "At least attempt a conversation, Al."

"Music helps me focus!" Alfred said. "Besides, Dad and Papa probably need some rest."

"Not with hip-hop blaring in our ears," Arthur commented. "Matthew, could you change it to something a bit quieter? Perhaps the classical station?"

"Boooriiing! How about country? That's relaxing!" Alfred suggested.

"Please, no." Francis mumbled, massaging his temples.

"It's not a big deal if we don't listen to music, Al." Mathieu offered.

"But that's so lame! How about a little R&B? That's somewhat soothing."

"Jazz! Jazz is always nice," Francis added, leaning forward a bit. "You and I used to listen to jazz all the time, Alfred. Remember?" Alfred shrugged.

"That was just a phase, dude," he replied. "R&B, that's my final offer." Without waiting for any other response, he changed the station where a soulful, female voice flowed through the car's speakers. "Ah, see? Isn't that nice?" The rest grumbled under their breath, turning their heads to look out the window as they entered the highway. Francis rested his head against the cold glass and closed his eyes. His stomach was still unsettled from the flight, he would much rather lie down and stay put on stable ground than take a ride to the hotel. It was obvious that Alfred had taken an interest in cars; his driving was great, but he was driving much too fast. He swerved in out of lanes too much, leaving the other drivers blaring their horns at them as they flew past. There was also swearing, which resulted in Arthur shouting back at Alfred every few seconds. Francis had missed having the whole family together, but he certainly did not miss the constant fighting. Francis cringed as his stomach suddenly felt all twisted and knotted; did anyone else in this car feel the same way?

"If I hear one more swear word out of your mouth, Alfred…" Arthur began. Francis reached over and brushed his hand against the Brit's arm.

"Arthur," he whispered. "Tell Alfred to slow down, please."

"What're you gonna do, dad? I'm twenty years old; too big to lie on your knee and be spanked." Alfred sneered.

"Just watch your language, please!" Arthur snapped back.

"Arthur!" Francis begged. "Alfred!" The car swerved over to another lane. Francis covered his mouth with the palm of his hand and placed his other free hand on his head. "Someone stop the car!"

"I'll do whatever I want, _pops_." Alfred taunted.

"Alfred! Attitude!"

"Papa?" Mathieu asked, quietly. Of the three in the car, Mathieu would be the only one to sense that something was wrong. "Papa?!" Mathieu called again. "Al, pull over!"

"I do not understand where you get your attitude from, Alfred, but your Papa and I came over for a nice visit. So be on your best behaviour, young man!" Arthur continued.

"Be on your best behaviour young man!" Alfred mimicked, in a terrible faux English accent.

"Al! Pull over!" Mathieu repeated.

"Huh? What for?" Alfred asked.

"I think I'm going to be sick!" Francis shouted.

"Shit!" Alfred floored the gas pedal and moved over to the shoulder lane as quickly as possible. As soon as the car came to a stop, Francis opened the door and raced around the SUV, leaning over the guard rail.

"Francis!" Arthur called out of the window. "Do you need anything?" When Francis didn't reply, he immediately climbed out of the car and scurried over to the back of the car. "Bollocks! Do either of you have any medicine of some sort?"

"Language!" Alfred shouted.

"Not now, Alfred!"

"I think I might have some Dramamine," Mathieu answered. "I'll go get my bag; it's in the back." He climbed out of the car as well, standing next to his father as they both looked through the luggage. Meanwhile, Francis held onto his stomach as he sat down on the guard rail, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. Travelling had never affected him this way in previous years; it was strange that his sickness even took away his happiness for travel.

In a few seconds, Arthur was standing by him, handing him a water bottle and a tiny, white pill. "Did you get sick?" he asked, sitting down next to him. Francis shook his head. "The plane ride bothered you, didn't it?"

"Very." Francis mumbled. His head felt as if it was spinning and he felt extremely weak. Arthur patted his back, sighing.

"Come on, that pill should help a little bit if you take it now. Just try to keep it down," he said. "Matthew said it's not too much longer until we arrive at the hotel."

"How much longer?" Francis asked, swallowing the pill.

"A few minutes, tops."

"Hey!" Alfred hollered. "Is everything alright?" Arthur slowly stood up, helping Francis stand up on his feet and guided him back over to the car. "Sorry about that, Papa. I'll try to drive a bit safer."

"It's alright," Francis replied, slowly stepping into the car again. He yawned. "Just wake me up when we get there…"

* * *

They arrived at the hotel safely without anymore stops on the road; Alfred and Mathieu carried their parents' luggage in as Arthur and Francis slowly followed by them. The brothers set the luggage by the window in the hotel room, giving their Papa good wishes for the night before they left. Francis sat on the bed, holding his head. "Are you feeling better, love?" Arthur asked, slipping his shoes off. "You slept for the rest of the drive here." Francis sighed, leaning back against the feather pillows.

"Next time, we rent a car." The Frenchman murmured.

"And a private jet too?" Arthur joked.

"I'd rather sail." Francis answered, closing his eyes. "Or beg Mathieu to drive; Alfred was absolutely nuts."

"At least he pulled over when you felt sick," Arthur added. "And he got us here safely." He lied down next to his husband, resting his head against Francis' shoulder. "It's a bit early, but I'm rather tired. We should get some rest, don't you think?" Francis smiled, gently, wrapping his arm around Arthur's shoulders.

"Sounds like a wonderful plan." he replied, yawning a bit. "Thank you for agreeing to this, Arthur. I know it's not the ideal trip, but it's really great to see the boys. I can't believe how much they've grown. It seems like yesterday when we brought them home for the first time."

"Yes, it is hard to believe, Arthur said. "And you know I'd do anything to make you happy." Francis chuckled.

"Remember when Alfred used to run around in the yard, pretending to be a superhero? He would wrap his blanket around his neck and put underwear on his head, zooming around the trees and fighting imaginary enemies with a stick." he said, laughing lightly. "Mathieu was the damsel in distress one time."

"Only because Alfred dared him to climb up the tree," Arthur added. "And we had to help him get down."

"Ah, and Mathieu was so good at drawing, remember? The boy could've been an artist!" Arthur smiled. "All those late nights, comforting them from nightmares…"

"Washing Alfred's bed sheets from bed wetting…"

"Oh Alfred…"

"I miss those days," Arthur finished, leaning over to turn the light off. "Back when the boys were innocent, I published novels and were a pastry chef," Francis curled up beside him, planting kisses all over him. "No worries, those were the days."

"We need to rest," Francis whispered. "We can reminisce later."

"Do you feel better?" Arthur asked, again. Francis lazily nodded, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep. Arthur kissed his forehead, stroking his short hair and sighed with relief. "I'm glad."

* * *

Sleep was getting more and more obscure recently for Arthur. And trying to sneak away from a sleeping, cuddly Francis was even harder. Arthur lied on his side, staring at the digital clock on the nightstand, listening to Francis' soft snores. Arthur tried closing his eyes, silently singing a lullaby his mother sang to him and he used to sing to the boys; he even tried counting sheep. But nothing could put him to sleep.

"_Oui…_" Francis muttered. Arthur tried to cover up his laugh; he knew that when Francis was in a deep sleep, he would mutter nonsense in French. "_Très bien…_" Arthur sighed. _I wish I could just forget the important things and sleep like he can. _He pulled Francis' arm off of him, gently, and snuck off of the bed. Most of the time, this plan failed; Francis would wake up immediately and drowsily pull Arthur back under the covers. This time, however, the Brit was successful. He quietly opened his carry-on bag and pulled out his leather bound journal and his favourite pen, sneaking off to the bathroom.

He closed the door behind him before turning on the light, just in case Francis had already noticed he had escaped. Arthur climbed into the bathtub, clicking the pen and began scribbling what came to his mind into his journal.

_I laughed in disbelief,_

_claiming his words_

_untrue. We never _

_spoke of it since. _

Sitting a bathtub, a _cold _bathtub, with thin pajamas wasn't as comfortable as planned. The hard parceling was harsh against his bottom, his tailbone felt as if it were cutting his skin open. Arthur shifted around, now lying on his stomach, and continued writing.

_I loved my love's_

_life; his golden hair_

_flowed with the leaves _

_his eyes blue like the _

_tidepools on the shore. _

_He was beautiful, _

_like the life I lived. _

_He was my life. _

He heard the door opened followed by soft murmuring. "Arthur?" Francis asked. "What on earth are you doing?" Arthur quickly closed his journal and looked up. "I woke up and you were gone!"

"I couldn't sleep," Arthur replied. "You know, different bed and strange hotel…"

"So you went to sleep in the bathtub?!" Francis laughed. "You silly Englishman! Get up and join me in bed. We've got a long day ahead of us, and I _know _you won't sleep in there." Arthur slid up to a sitting position, cracking his back.

"Oof," he mumbled. "I'm getting too old…" Francis offered him a helping hand, grinning.

"Did you _really _think I wouldn't wake up?" he asked, guiding Arthur out of the bathroom. "The bed is so cold without you, and you know how much I _hate _the cold," They both climbed into bed, tangling themselves together. Francis pulled Arthur close as he could, tightening his cuddle. "_Bonne nuit, mon amour._" he added, kissing his neck. Arthur intertwined his fingers with Francis', staring back at the digital clock.

"Good night," he whispered. "My love."


End file.
